


Worth the Price

by mandysimo13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Confessions of love, Gift, Happy Ending, John's POV, Kissing, M/M, Non canon compliant, Sherlock's POV, Sherlock's scars, Tumblr Prompt, give away gift, vulnerable boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 09:51:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10964799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandysimo13/pseuds/mandysimo13
Summary: Despite Sherlock's best intentions, John sees his scars. Seeing the depth of Sherlock's devotion to him causes John's fears of inadequacy and self loathing to rise up. Sherlock tries to smooth it over, take away John's pain. He tries to protect John, like he always has, and fears he's lost him forever. When John finally opens the door, everything comes tumbling out.





	Worth the Price

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for my lovely follower on tumblr W4nd3rrlust. Hope you all enjoy!

John covered his hand to stifle his gasp. He hadn’t meant to look in on Sherlock, spying on him all creepy like. But the door was cracked, practically an invitation to conversation. All he had wanted was to ask if his friend wanted a cuppa before bedtime with him. 

 

But it was too late. His voice left him in a shocked puff of air and now Sherlock was looking at him with fear in his eyes. 

 

“John,” he whispered, voice wobbly. 

 

“I...I’m sorry,” John said, backing out of Sherlock’s doorway to retreat to the safety of his own room. 

 

_ Scars. His whole back is covered in scars.  _

 

John rushed into his room, closing the door firmly before he pressed his back to it and sank to the floor, barricading it against Sherlock’s impending appearance. His breaths came quickly, fear and self loathing crashing over him as he was flooded with images of Sherlock. Sherlock scared, vulnerable, his back covered in scars. Sherlock’s back as a sheet fell from it as he sauntered through Buckingham-fucking-Palace, flawless skin shining in the sunlight. Sherlock’s smile at his grand reveal in the restaurant when he interrupted a would-be marriage proposal. Sherlock’s hurt face when John yelled at him before he had fully explained himself.  

 

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…

 

_ Those scars are fresh, _ was his next thought. Some of the smaller ones were white with healing but some were still pink and ugly. A few were deep and spanned his entire back where some seemed to be more superficial and scarred because of lack of treatment rather than severity. From what he could see in the dim light of Sherlock’s bedroom, there was still a fair amount of healing to do on them. 

 

Before he had a chance to silently ask himself when Sherlock had even gotten them, the next thought in his head was  _ he had those at the restaurant.  _ They were too new for them to have been more than a year old. Sherlock had only been back three months. Those wounds would still have been new when he came back to London. 

 

Back to him.  

 

_ And you tackled him. You hit him, hurt him. He must have been in so much pain and he never complained. You’re a real bloody piece of work, Watson,  _ he silently berated himself. 

 

His self loathing internal struggle was interrupted by a timid knock to his door. “John,” Sherlock asked, voice soft and gentle. “John, please let me in.” John couldn’t answer, emotion clogging his throat. He wanted to tell Sherlock to go away because clearly John wasn’t good enough to be in his life if he could hurt him like that. He wanted to tell him to come in so John could look at the scars and see if he could do anything to help them heal better, heal cleaner. He wanted to shout at him and ask why he had never told him about them. He wanted to know why he never used them as leverage to get John to do things for him, whereas Before a hangnail was cause for a strop and a plea for sympathy. He wanted to beg him for forgiveness for causing him more harm, possibly tearing open fresh wounds, ripping stitches, and causing irreparable damage. He wanted to open the door and wrap him in a hug like he should have done that first night. 

 

Instead, he sat on the floor of his room, trying to get his breathing under control. 

 

And of course Sherlock took his silence personally. 

 

“John, I just want to say I’m sorry,” he said quietly. John’s eyes filled with tears and his body went still with shock. “I’m sorry if...if my scars disgust you. They disgust me, too. They’re evidence of something I wanted to remain hidden. Evidence of how,” he paused, trying to articulate his thoughts. Something else that had never happened Before. “Of just how broken I am. You weren’t-”

 

Sherlock’s voice broke, clearly overcome with emotion himself and it took several seconds for him to gather himself again. “You weren’t meant to know. Weren’t meant to see.”

 

John couldn’t answer him. How could he possibly make Sherlock understand that he wasn’t disgusted with him. He was disgusted with  _ himself _ ! Sherlock had clearly sacrificed a great deal for him and John hadn’t  even known! Sure, Sherlock had told him about dismantling Moriarty’s network, and how he had had a rough time doing so in the two years they were parted. He had told John about many of his adventures, almost joking about it at times, telling him how he missed his blogger’s insight while he was away. But if those scars were the price, John didn’t want to know if he was worth it. 

 

He certainly didn’t think he was worth it. 

 

“I’ll understand if you’re mad at me. If you think less of me. But please, John. Just...say something.” Sherlock’s voice wobbled, adding a soft, “please.”

 

Sherlock never said please. And yet he said it to John, repeatedly. That’s what eventually broke John’s composure. A sob he didn’t know he was holding back tore through him and he shoved a fist in his mouth to muffle it. But Sherlock heard it and became distressed. 

 

“John, please, tell me what you’re thinking! I can’t tell through the door.” He seemed almost desperate. The sounds of shuffling and clothing rustling alerted John to Sherlock kneeling on the floor outside his door. A heavy sigh and what sounded like a strangled cough, then Sherlock asked, “do you want me to leave?”

 

John’s answer was immediate. “No.” 

 

“Good. Because I don’t want to leave,” Sherlock told him. “Never again.” 

 

John seemed to find his voice again. He swallowed back another sob before asking, “how could you not? After what I did to you?”

 

“What you did to me?” He sounded confused. As if John had never did something unforgivable to him. “Explain.”

 

“Your scars,” he started but Sherlock cut him off almost immediately.

 

“Are not your fault.”

 

“But-”

 

“No, John,” Sherlock said firmly. “You are not to blame for these. These are the work of Siberian brutes, trying to beat information out of me. If anyone else is to blame it’s Mycroft. You know, he sat there and watched them have a go at me for twenty minutes before he stepped in to bring me home. Prick.” His attempt at humor fell flat but still he continued. “You,” Sherlock declared firmly, “are not to blame.”

 

“I know,” John choked out. “But that night, at The Landmark, I-” John couldn’t finish his sentence. He breathed deeply, trying to collect his anguish and tuck it away. He couldn’t let it all come tumbling out. What a mess they’d be in then.  

 

Sherlock made a noise of understanding. Another minute of silence passed before he spoke again. “John, open the door please.”

 

Sherlock had said please. Repeatedly. He could have easily barrelled his way through but he didn’t. Instead he waited for John to be the brave one and tear down yet another barrier between them. Sherlock had been so brave, facing the world alone for so long. He waited patiently while John composed himself, pushing aside all his grief until he could finally move. He uncurled himself from a sitting position to kneeling. Turning on his knees he reached up to open the door and was faced with Sherlock on his knees. 

 

_ Even on his knees he’s still tall, _ he thought to himself. 

 

Sherlock smiled shyly at him. “Hi.”

 

John tried and failed to return his smile. “Hi.”

 

\\\~*~//

 

Sherlock’s body had snapped to full attention when he heard a horrified gasp behind him. He had been changing for bed, just shrugging off his shirt to exchange it for his soft, cotton t-shirt that served as his pajamas, not a care in the world. He was home, back where he wanted to be: in 221B, with John. What else was there to be concerned with? 

 

But that gasp made his head snap up to look in the mirror and and what he found was John staring at him, horror written on his face. 

 

He was so sure he had closed his door all the way. Clearly, he hadn’t. 

 

Surprise and terror colored his voice, not having expected his scars to be made known to John. “John,” he whispered. 

 

“I...I’m sorry,” John had replied before disappearing to his room. His footsteps retreated quickly and the sound of his door resolutely shutting him away sounded like a condemnation. Like the ending of a chapter. 

 

Sherlock dressed as quickly as he could, donning his pajamas and his dressing gown, wanting to seem as approachable and non threatening as possible. Then he climbed the stairs to John’s room, desperate to talk to him. To apologize. To make things right. 

 

It seemed he would be doing that for the rest of his life. 

 

Before he could think about it, more apologies spilled from his mouth. Silence rang back at him and panic clawed at Sherlock’s throat. A million scenarios ran through his mind, all of them ended with John leaving or being angry with him or both. He plead with John to open the door, to look at him, to let him in. 

 

_ I can’t lose him again, we’ve come so far! I can’t lose him,  _ he railed internally as he tried desperately to get John to speak to him. When it seemed like John would refuse to speak with him indefinitely, Sherlock sagged in defeat. If John wanted, he would remove himself. So he asked, “do you want me to leave?”

 

“No.” 

 

The answer surprised him but gave him hope. He clung to that and found the courage to talk more. “Good. Because I don’t want to. Never again.”

 

“How could you not want to? After what I did to you?”

 

Sherlock was confused, his mind searching and scanning for any wrongdoing on John’s part and coming up empty. He asked for clarification only to get John referencing his scars. He tried to make him see that none of it was his fault but John persisted. He brought up the night of their reunion, how John had tackled him in the restaurant. 

 

_ Ah, he knows they were fresh then, _ Sherlock thought. He hummed in understanding. It was suddenly of the utmost importance that he looked at John’s face. So he tried one more time.

 

“John, open the door please.” 

 

It took a little time but eventually he heard telltale shuffling and soon the door was open. And there they were, staring at each other as they knelt in front of each other, two sinners begging for forgiveness. 

 

Sherlock went for the simple approach. “Hi.”

 

John’s lips twitched before frowning. “Hi.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes raked over him, cataloguing everything he couldn’t deduce through a solid wood door. He found disgust, regret, sadness, anger, tenderness, compassion, and fear warring for dominance in John Watson. He started to pick apart and catalogue each emotion, assigning meaning to each of them when John, once again surprised him. 

 

“Can...can I see them?”

 

Sherlock blinked, taken aback. “Even though they cause you pain? You still want to see them?”

 

John huffed a humorless laugh. “Those wounds must have hurt like hell. And yet, you want to save  _ me _ from pain?” He shook his head and reached out to take Sherlock’s hands in his own. He kissed each one before looking into his eyes. “I need to see. Please?”

 

Sherlock had always been terrible at denying John anything. The thought of letting anyone else look too long, too deeply, at his scars made his stomach roll. He knew they weren’t pretty. After they had healed enough so he didn’t have to wear gauze pads under his shirts, he had told Mycroft to take a picture for him. He knew what they looked like. Sometimes he bent his arm back to touch at some of the more accessible ones. They had smoothed out but there was no hiding them. If he let John see them, John’s image of him would change forever. 

 

But John had asked. So he would let him. 

 

He nodded and they both rose, hands still clasped as John pulled him into the room. He took a deep, measured breath and shrugged off his dressing gown. He folded it and put it on John’s bed within easy reach before sending his hands to the hem of his shirt. He swallowed thickly, his mouth suddenly dry. Aside from the doctors, and Mycroft, no one else had seen his scars. They were a symbol of weakness. A sign of his personal failures. A symbol of his human fragility. 

 

He hated them. 

 

He whipped the shirt off without thinking too hard on it and it joined his dressing gown on the bed. He stood there, fighting the urge to cross his arms defensively over himself. Then he asked, “would you like me to stand or…”

 

John nodded and so he stood still. Slowly, John circled him. When he reached his back, a barely audible gasp escaped him and Sherlock closed his eyes against the sudden prickling in his eyes. 

 

_ He’s disgusted. He hates them. He hates you. He’ll never see you the same again. You’ve ruined everything. You should have been smarter, more clever, never should have left! You-  _

 

And then, a tender touch quieted his internal screaming. Timid, gentle fingertips pressed lightly into the scars near his shoulder. At his sudden gasp, they retreated. 

 

“Sorry,” John said immediately. “Do they still hurt?” Sherlock shook his head. They didn’t hurt, hadn’t hurt for awhile. The phrases  _ its bark is worse than its bite, _ and  _ looks worse than it feels _ came to mind. “May I?”

 

Sherlock nodded and the fingers returned. They trailed from one scar to the next, moving on an unmapped path across the whole of his back. John didn’t skip over a single one. Not one inch of his skin was left untouched. His fingers branded warmth over the top of his raised but smooth scars, making him shiver in anticipation and wonder what in God’s name John was thinking.

 

After what seemed like an eternity, John took him by the shoulders and turned him around. He looked up at Sherlock and his heart stuttered in his chest. There wasn’t an ounce of fear or disgust this time. Only adoration and...dare he say it?

 

Love. 

 

A burden Sherlock didn’t know he had been carrying seemed to float off his shoulders in an instant. He breathed out a sigh of relief, his fears from before fading away as John’s sad, shining eyes bored into him. He took Sherlock’s cheeks in his hands and bent their heads together, their foreheads resting against each other. His eyes closed automatically, relishing this feeling of peace. Resting. Together. Stripping away everything that they ever held back from each other and just allowing themselves a moment of silent contemplation and acceptance. 

 

He had been running from his fear of rejection for so long, he realized. He had been running and hiding for so long; for most of his life, in fact. But John, always John, he always caught up to him. He always reached back where others had scorned him. He easily slipped into his life despite Sherlock’s mighty defenses. He was Sherlock’s greatest weakness and having him hold him like this was too much. Tears slipped from beneath his eyelids, finally flushing out long held wounds. 

 

It was John broke the silence. 

 

“You did this for me. You let yourself be tortured, all so you could come back to me.”

 

The admission was so easy. There was no hiding anymore. “Yes, John.”

 

“You let me take my anger and grief out on you. Even though what you had done for me was still fresh on the skin of your back.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Open your eyes for me, Sherlock,” John implored. Sherlock opened them to find John staring up at him, determination set in the twist of his lips. “I am going to make a deduction and I need you to tell me if I’m right.”

 

Sherlock nodded, his fringe brushing against John’s forehead. “Okay.”

 

“I deduce,” John said softly, slowly, “that you love me.”

 

Sherlock smiled shyly. It was a gamble. John might be able to accept his scarred body and might be able to forgive his lying to protect him. But would he accept his love? John’s protestations of “not gay” screamed into his mind. An effective deterrent to the outside observer. “Not gay” equalled “could not love Sherlock”, a convenient cover for John’s past dates.  

 

But then John’s everyday actions that contested the idea that he couldn’t love him in return. The fact that perfectly made tea arrived to him every morning without fail. The miracle of the fridge always having milk. The fact that he forced food down Sherlock’s throat, sleep onto his weary brain, and provided stimulation when he was bored whenever he could. These were as much actions of love as Sherlock’s actions in Siberia were. As much as Sherlock’s attempts at being less brash in his conversation. As much as Sherlock’s attempts at being more sociable for John’s sake. As much as Sherlock deigning to do the dishes once in a blue moon. 

 

They had been saying those three little words for as long as they had known each other. They were just too stupid to realize it. 

 

Taking the final plunge, stepping up to the point of no return, Sherlock replied, “yes, John.” 

 

John’s breath left him, like a punch to the gut and Sherlock panicked momentarily, thinking he had gotten it wrong. But then John pressed up on his tiptoes to press his lips against Sherlock’s in a tender kiss. Sherlock sagged with relief, nearly whimpering with it. He kissed back eagerly, even as they moved slowly together. John’s arms came to wrap around him and he stiffened once, out of habit, when John touched his scars. But, after a moment, he relaxed and they molded to each other. 

 

It had taken them so long, too long, to get there. 

 

But as they whispered declarations to each other, finally admitting their love and promising to make up for lost time, Sherlock came to realize something: if it meant ending up in John’s arms, it was all worth it. Every heartbreak, every time someone muttered “freak” at him, every hardship, every scar. 

 

It was all worth it. 

 

Later, they laid together on John’s bed. They did no more than twine their limbs together to hold each other, sharing soft words and kisses. For the time being, it was enough. Though they had waited so long to finally admit to themselves what they wanted, what they needed, to them there was no rush. They savored their revelations, gently stroking at them as they catalogued the feeling of each other’s heartbeats against their chests. 

 

Inevitably, Sherlock felt the weight of their emotional outpouring and he began to drift to sleep. But before he did, he felt John’s lips against the top of his head and a whispered, “goodnight, love.” 

 

In reply, Sherlock snuggled down impossibly closer and whispered back, “goodnight, John.”

  
_ Yes, _ he decided.  _ It was all worth it. _


End file.
